


'makin fun of the way i was breathin

by secretsarenotforfree



Category: Hart of Dixie
Genre: Denial, F/M, Never Heard of a Plot In My Life, Porn What Plot/Flannel What Clothes, Wade has the Skills Duh, idk what to tag this, plaid flannels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28765662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsarenotforfree/pseuds/secretsarenotforfree
Summary: She was seductive without even trying. Sexy without even thinking about it. Fogging his head like smoke and filling it with all kinds of thoughts that should make it a commandment in itself to not let Wade Kinsella in a church.
Relationships: Zoe Hart/Wade Kinsella
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	'makin fun of the way i was breathin

**Author's Note:**

> it's been almost ten years since season two (SCREAMING WHAT THE FUCK) but i'm still thinking about how the writers fed poor little shipper me with having zoe in wade's flannels not once but TWICE in season two. i am SO blessed. i started thinking about, wow wonder what wade would've thought the first time she did that? and then seven pages happened, a couple days after it was born.
> 
> i have some more ficlets but THE FUTURE IS UNCERTAIN RN. for now, take this. 
> 
> this is set earlyish season two. they're exclusive but wade hasn't asked for more, and it's still a secret. in this fic wade hasn't even come to terms with wanting more yet, poor dumbass. anyway!
> 
> title from 'favorite t-shirt' by jake scott.

What’s that thing from all those old damn commercials? 

A - a Kodak moment. 

Yeah, Wade’s having one of those.

It’s not the first, or second, any number small enough to count on your hands time that a girl has worn one of his shirts, but it was the first time _Zoe Hart_ was. Teeny, tiny, fast mouthed neighbor of a girl who drove him batshit up a wall when he wasn’t being charmed by her and whose warmth still lingered in his rumpled sheets. Zoe Hart, who had asked him not five minutes ago if he still had Eggos left and was presumably beelining for his microwave, the only bedraggled piece of ‘kitchen’ he had ever owned. Zoe Hart, who had scooped a red and blue flannel off the floor and tugged it over her head like it was casual. Like she’d done it a thousand times (which she absolutely hadn’t). 

All Wade had to think was _damn_.

Because it was, in fact, a damn fine sight to see. Long blonde streaked hair thrown in a messy bun with a scrunchie that Wade would put good money on having survived since the nineties, those long, purposefully kept gorgeously smooth legs. The old threaded line of where his shoulders filled out the plaid falling near halfway down her forearms. Too long sleeves pushed haphazardly to her elbows, unbuttoned and uneven. The scooped bottom of the soft flannel hanging disappointingly just low enough that Wade was deprived of the inviting, plush of her ass.

She was seductive without even trying. Sexy without even thinking about it. Fogging his head like smoke and filling it with all kinds of thoughts that should make it a commandment in itself to not let Wade Kinsella in a church.

That was one of the things he’d noticed, when they first met. The imperious, pissed off swish of her ass and hips that had burned their exactly bell of their shape into his retinas for the rest of time. Wade Kinsella, you see, was an ass man. Always had been, always would. Nothing caught his attention like the perfect tight pair of jeans, the hem of a just shy of indecent skirt. Shorts, too, yeah those were a mortal weakness. Or at least they had been since _she_ rolled into town. Leather and stylish tweed and all sorts of fabrics he wouldn’t pretend to know but that taunted him with images of those flawless fucking legs nearly every damn day.

For a moment, he despairs at Those Legs being so far away, but then he remembers the shirt. He remembers the shirt and exactly how bare and relaxed her body was underneath and Wade’s eyes darken, instead, and... When was she coming back to bed?

“Sometimes I wish that Lavon’s Pastry Elf would visit our places too, instead of acting like a biased, flour and sugared version of Santa.”

It’s eleven, or midnight, but he lost track somewhere between her coming over wound up and pissed off by some sexist shit Brick had pulled and him bending her over his couch to make her feel better. Because, of course, one of the discoveries made recently due to their new and improved monogamous sexual relationship, he now knew that nothing soothed the headache threatening her temples or the tension in Zoe Hart’s back then being ass up, legs kicked apart with the fingers of one hand wrapped around her wrists. Straining against his hold and speechless against the pleasure building in her while he pounded into her and gripped her hips so hard it nearly bruised so he would know exactly when she came, shuddering, moaning his name loud enough that Burt Reynolds could probably hear.

At some point, he’d swept up her satiated and a little limp body over to the bed.

Wade, propped up on his arms from the moment she’d actually made it out of bed, couldn’t help the eyebrow furrow nor the laugh that spilled from a bare and beautiful chest. Even when he thought nothing she said would surprise him anymore Zoe always managed to prove him wrong. “Pastry Elf?”

“That’s what I’ve decided I’m calling it! Get on board or get out of the way.” Zoe declares, rustling through the boxes of half full ‘snack cereal’ and abandoned clothes. “I could’ve sworn I saw some syrup around here.”

“Look for brown paper,” Wade suggests, tone entirely unhelpful as his head lolls to the side to better follow her progress with a deep hazel gaze. She looks good enough to eat. She looks good enough to maybe just freeze life for a moment there, so he can come back on this later, and - wait. Isn’t that what cameras were invented for? Whatever scientists dude or lady that came up with that invention, Wade was grateful. He’d pour one out for them the next time his day was rough enough to call for something other than beer. 

Leaning over a bit to his nightstand he grabs his phone and slides up the camera option. Spends a bit of time adjusting his back against the pillows, making sure he can get a good shot. Wade has about as much artistic talent as an overenthusiastic six year old, but maybe whatever it is that helps him know exactly to add to a drink to make it taste good will kick in. “Hey, Doc.” He calls, trying to get a gauge on her attention.

Zoe makes a crowing noise of victory, emerging victoriously from his mess with a tiny plastic container, the kind of one serving syrups that one would get from a hotel breakfast. Or in Wade’s case, from the last time he nabbed just a couple from the monthly pancake breakfast. “Ah ha!”

“Doc.”

“What?” She’s still not looking. She’s pouring it over the steaming waffle and on a new hunt for a fork. She’s not paying attention and Wade wore that shirt _all day_ at his mid afternoon shift at the Rammer Jammer, and she’s wearing it like it’s no big deal. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that excited for anything, not even sex with me.”

Zoe snorts. “Waffles have more sex appeal than any man in the world, including you Wade _Kinsella_. Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Well, if she was going to _invite_ him like that. The sounds caused by the thriving pond ecosystem on the mayor's estate made a familiar background to the progressively more depraved thoughts _Zoe_ in _his shirt_ were single handedly causing. Wade manages to snap a pic right as she’s in the middle of forgetting herself, of how she thought she “should'' be doing or acting, something he’s starting to…. _want_ to see. Something he’s craving to bring unwillingly out of her more often than not. He finds the Doctor Zoe Hart who smacks him on the shoulder and calls him a ninny in words he would really not prefer to have to spell, sexy in a way that he’s never quite found anyone before.

Not that he’s fully acknowledged that to even himself.

Not that any verbalizations or whatever as proof to that train of thought would materialize any time soon, if ever.

Not that this particular, if digitized, Kodak moment involves a Zoe Hart naked of everything but _his shirt_ , licking the thin syrup coated lid of the tiny container. Legs kicked against each other and impatient, thick sable lashes half covering those big brown doe eyes that had a particular ability to reach a hand through his ribs and squeeze what was left of what he called his heart. Loose curls ruined by his hand falling out of their fabric prison and the open gape of his shirt around her shoulders displaying the purpled mark of a hickey that meant Zoe was definitely wearing a jacket to work tomorrow. Lips still a little swollen and very pink from his kisses. 

_Shit._

Wade would never admit it, but Zoe knocked him dead. Every damn time.

“Come back to bed, Zoe.” Wade wheedles, slipping his phone back onto the small stand. “Take the plate with you, I don’t care where you eat.”

“Why don’t you have any utensils, you caveman.” Zoe’s retorts lose all of their perceived fire when those fantastic legs are obediently coming back towards him. Her grip is solid on the sturdy paper plates when she clambers back beside him. Necessity has driven her to eat the prepackaged breakfast food with her hands, syrup and all. She licks the little bit she’s gotten on her other hand and the sheets over Wade’s waist move a bit. He can’t _help_ it, okay. His body is on Go Time pretty much any time she’s with him and he doesn’t have to work to keep his mind on less dirty things.

Shifting down a bit Wade props his head up on his arm and uses his now available hand to lightly draw calloused fingertips on all that leg. Her pulse flutters against his touch the higher he gets, loops on the circumference of her thighs, and Zoe shivers and then yelps. “Wade Kinsella, if you get your fingers inside me before this waffle gets there, _so help me_ I will _break_ one of your guitar strings or something.”

“That’s a gross comparison.” The man beside her offers cheerily, intention only strengthening behind his actions on her leg. “And I have extra strings, though it would be a hassle to have to get up to replace them right about now. Because I kind of have other plans.”

She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction (or any, at the moment) of knowing he’s affecting her, but Wade watches for the signs now. The little hitch in her breathing, the tremble under his touch. Zoe’s constantly complaining that he’s like a human heater, near impossible to cuddle with in the Alabama warmth, but she never seems to mind it when she’s like this. When he’s decided to do his best to make her be near begging from want for him to just _touch her already God, Wade you’re such an asshole_ though whatever dismissive moniker she would choose for him usually dissolved on a small cry.

Zoe drops the plate strategically on a spot of empty floor next to the bed and Wade pretends that he doesn’t see her fingers shake. Before she can suck off the last bit of syrup his hand shoots up from under the sheets and lightly takes a hold of her wrist. The moment sparks tight and heavy between them, eyes locking, and Wade doesn’t hold even an atom of shame when he brings her small, talented hand to his mouth and uses his tongue to get rid of the stickiness himself. Because he was a Southern gentleman like that, not leaving a drop wasted. Because he wanted to see what it would make her do.

Wade had patience, a bit. He could coax. He had no problem with using that wide eyed, ragged pupiled look, mouth parted on a small, barely heard “ _oh_ ” to tug her forward by that slim wrist bared by his too big sleeves and kiss her firmly. Zoe’s got some of the best lips he’s ever kissed, hands down. Lush, full. A giver and a taker. A leader who got hot and bothered to be led, as it should be. 

He had a sneaking suspicion that she’d had the upper hand, somehow, in most of her relation - _sexual partners_ before. Whether from her apathy or lack of it, but mostly Wade blamed the men. You can’t get a girl with lips like that and not kiss her like air depended on it. He can’t resist touching her, can’t resist cupping her cute too smart face in his hands and throwing that damn scrunchie somewhere they had a fifty fifty shot of finding later. He licks into her mouth on Zoe’s low moan and lays her back down, her legs curling into his already when her arms wind their way around neck and those fingers tug on his dirty blonde hair, hard. She tastes like heat and syrup and Zoe’s still in his _damn_ shirt and Wade’s never been one for superstition but he thinks a little vaguely that he feels a little _utterly consumed_ by the thought. 

“Are we about to work off the calories I just ate?” Come the low, breathy words, raspier than they had been not a couple minutes before, puffing against Wade’s mouth and framed by those insanely luscious lips. Wade’s keeping his head firmly in the game, really he is, but _fuck_ is it hard to do that with Zoe grabbing his ass with one hand and keeping that loose tug in his hair with her other.

Wade makes a rough, low noise in his throat and runs a firm hand under his shirt on her body, the familiar fabric of a flannel he’d worn for years transforming with the addition of her impossibly soft skin right underneath it. He palms her ass, lazily, one big hand spreading to near both cheeks, and makes it up to her breast. “Something like that.” He says in something close to a sinful croon, accent as thick and heavy as other, unattended parts of him, and spins her nipple between his fingers. Tugs gently, convincingly, until Zoe’s arching beside him and her tongue in his mouth breaks on a sharp keen when he starts kneading.

There’s a small spot of damp under his thumb when he presses it briefly into the center of her sternum, and se knows that she’s a bit hot. Knows that perhaps it’s not entirely fair, but Wade is a _big fan_ of her in that shirt. Zoe couldn’t name a single New York designer that would make her something that she would look better in than right now, and he would despair if she took it off. Not now. 

So he tosses off most of the sheets. 

The sudden amount of air hitting Zoe’s legs does more than it does his own, as she was more sensitive to temperature change than him. She curses, a short “ _fuck_ ’ that’s more in surprise than anything and travels her gaze past his golden chest, to the throbbing very proud part of him that, thanks to his constant lucky stars, continued to bob invitingly, to the golden hair dusting his strong legs before Wade got a hold of her chin. 

“Leave the shirt on,” he murmurs, half a request, mostly a command, but there’s definitely something unspoken in it that neither of them mention. Something in the fact that Wade liking Zoe in his shirt said a little more about exactly how _not-_ casual this thing was edging on and it wasn’t part of the agreement, but if pushed Wade would defend that as far as kinks go, it was pretty tame. And universal, though in his case it would be a damn lie.

Zoe nods, no words said, and her grasp falls to the flex of his bicep when his hand moves to push her legs apart. For a moment all they can both hear is the whir of the air conditioning unit, the croak of the frogs, and noise of the crickets, but neither is paying attention when Wade’s hand is moving slowly up the inside of her leg. 

Not when the muscles in his abdomen rippled and harden at Wade straining a bit to hold himself up far enough on a forearm so that he can fold and pull up the knee closest to him to kiss. The motion has the hem fall high enough on a gently rounded stomach to show her, wanting and waiting, to his gaze. Just as pretty and pink as Wade had imagined since the first time he saw her. 

(Pretty girls did not always mean pretty pussies, but he’d had a feeling about Zoe.

As always, when it came to sex, his gut was spot the fuck on.)

“Ohhh, you’re wet, aren’t you sweetheart. Yeah, ya' are.” Wade’s grin is wide and shit eating, and only gets wider when, even though she hits him gently for the tease, Zoe smiles instead of arguing. She opens her mouth to say something but Wade’s weak, and he’s tired of waiting, so he slides the tip of his thumb against her clit and she absolutely shudders instead. If he hadn’t already been hard enough to drill through concrete, that would've done it.

Fitting his fingers inside her, she is snug and tight and deliciously slippery despite it all, quickly welcoming the intrusion once he starts to work them into a rhythm. Zoe’s body takes his touch eagerly, attempting to hold onto his fingers on every draw back, but Wade doesn’t give it entirely what it wants. He is methodical and adaptive, tapping up every so often so she squirms even harder and grinds into his hand herself. With great difficulty he drags a burning gaze from her face, something inside him being consistently deathly attracted to watching her those dark lashes press and that mouth fall open, to the rest of her. To the stripes laying across the sweet curves of that waist and those rosy hips and the rosy other parts of her and how he’s _finger fucking Doctor Zoe Hart while she’s wearing his shirt_. 

If Wade had had any kind of friction right now, he would’ve come in a couple seconds flat in no time, and have no shame in it, because Christ, _look_ at her. Panting, meeting him occasionally for increasingly messier kisses, whispering and then crying out his name when he changed rhythm or got her just, just - ! Close enough to then make Zoe crash back down before reaching the summit. Absolutely soaking his hand as he ground his wrist in tight circles against that all important bundle of nerves and kept the pace with his pointed and middle fingers.

“Zoe.” Wade’s voice is gravel deep and molasses soaked on every syllable, and wouldn’t willingly broker any argument. Not like this, not now. Never when they were like this. “Zoe, would you like to come?”

He felt, more than saw, her grit her teeth. “Wade -”

“ _Zoe._ ” His wrist lets up on its purposeful movements, having Zoe’s body bow up and back down the bed. Her skin is as hot to the touch now as his normally was, and when she glares up at him her pupils are too blown and ragged for him to believe she has the energy to fight very hard when her body is this desperate for release.

“ _Wade,_ ” Zoe mocks in almost the same tone. “I can always do it myself, you know.” It’s the threadiest loose threat Wade’s ever heard, and he doesn’t trust it for a second. 

“Here’s the thing, though, Doc. You don’t want to do it yourself. You want me to do it for you.” He scissors his fingers a little wider, pulling out slowly, and Zoe’s eyes shudder close as a moan pulls from her lips. Her nails dig into his bare arm, tiny crescents of white that doesn’t get even a moment of attention. “Just say please. That’s it.”

Zoe bites down on her full lower lip, eyes still closed, and tilts her hips into his next thrust, her hold on him tight. “Fine. Please, Wade.”

“Please Wade, make me come.” Wade adds, just to be a bit more annoying about it, and resumes All of his previous activities. Except, he adds another finger just so that she feels almost as full as she was when he was inside of her, and increases the pace. Gets the heel of his hand to set up the punishing pace against her that she responded so well to, and drinks in Zoe’s slightly slurry mess of words that include his name and colorful language she had to have learned in New York. 

When he senses she’s close, the pull of her around his fingers taut as a bow, he dips his head a bit and sinks his teeth ever so steadily into the line of her collarbone. The edge of his teeth catches in a buttonhole along with her sweet tasting skin, but it’s worth it all when it proves to be the last thing to make her snap and fall apart.

Zoe coming usually meant that fast tongue of hers was completely silent for once, focused dragging in oxygen into those small lungs, head buried in that hollow of his head and neck, one hand loose on his chest and the other caught between them with his other arm curled around her. Her eases her through the aftershocks, a slow push and pull into she no longer clings helplessly around his fingers, and then withdraws them. Cleans them with his mouth, tastier than the syrup earlier, and fists his hand in the tails of his shirt and rolls her on top of him.  
  


“You still alive there, Doc?”

She laughs, weak and airy, and then turns her head up a bit to see him. Zoe takes up so little space even on top of him it boggles his mind sometimes. Her legs splay looselike over the sides of his waist and hips, her being just short enough to get her situated just a bit above his still straining erection. “Shut up, Wade.” Ten seconds, twenty, and then “You did good.”

“Hells yeah, I did.” Wade pats her ass satisfyingly, keeping hold afterwards. “I turned you to jelly girl, and you know it.”

Zoe pushes herself up a little and kisses him, long and sweet, and Wade doesn’t hesitate to put his all into it. Carding his fingers into her thick dark hair and telling her how much he liked to see her come with his lips and tongue. “Maybe I do.” She whispers after a tug on his lip, and clambers her hands into a more upright position. He tucks a long lock behind her ear, hazel eyes sparking and fierce, and to his credit doesn’t hide the low hiss that escapes him when she lifts up and then sinks down on top of him. 

So there would be one thing hotter than Zoe, out of her mind with pleasure, in his shirt.

And it would be Zoe, sex light and easy, devilish grin on those princess lips as she rode him to heaven and back, _in his shirt_. Or without it entirely.

(Now _that_ was a moment worth remembering.)

(And he planned on burning every moment of it into his brain for every moment in the future that she might not be.)


End file.
